“I’m sorry, I ordered whipped cream.”
“That must be mine.”
Sugar, cocoa powder, salt, milk and vanilla extract – checked.
“The Terminal, okay?” you asked from the bedroom.
It’s Friday night, our movie night. I’m warming up to the privilege of embedding the word our in my life now. I’m in the kitchen heating up the milk.
“Yaaa, okay,” you weren't really asking.
You self-crowned yourself The Director since I find pleasure in snoozing before the show ends. You want to appreciate the ending, you said.
I fetch the mixing bowl, the one with a fine crack at the bottom of the bowl – cream colored on the inside, apple green on the outside. Then I find my eyes fixated at the racks of bakeware you surprised me when we moved in. Three seconds of quiet fixation. Three seconds of shaking up the baking mojo. The yellow mustard baking pan, which I laid my eyes on every time I visit the Bake Me store downtown, the ancient orange rubber whisk that I’m refusal to replace, the zebra printed measuring cups Jill gave me as a housewarming gift, and everything else translates the Cake Boss that I imagine myself as in the kitchen. I succumbed to your immaculate definition of me.
“Don’t you like marshes?” I asked.
“Marshes?”
“I’m sorry, I mean marshmallows. My five year-old nephew calls it marshes.”
You let out a shy laugh.
“Okaaay, now that’s embarrassing,” my cheeks reddened.
Two tablespoons of brown sugar, three teaspoons of Hershey’s cocoa powder and a pinch of salt are waiting anxiously while I stir the milk.
“Would you hurry up?” your voice penetrated the boiling milk.
It has to be stirred well or the ingredients won’t mix to perfection.
“Don’t start without me!” I returned.
Oh I nearly missed out the vanilla.
I hurried a few steps to the window and let the overwhelming chocolaty air thins itself. It was love at first sight. After an endless search for a one-bedroom apartment, this kitchen caught me. The tiny pink and orange mosaics complement the stainless steel oven the moment we tweaked the rustic red door open. I’ve always wanted the kitchen to greet me first as I step into an abode and the sweet scent of my signature cranberry shortcake to welcome the guests. The wooden kitchen island is just perfect. You saw me fidgeting in disbelief. I saw myself diving into this deep ocean of eggs and flour beating up to timeless of joy. I have found my kitchen.
Eight minutes for the chocolate drink to simmer. My thoughts then scurried to that wet Wednesday evening in November, which brought me to the marshes and cream of my desire. The hot chocolate calling that led me to you.
“I like mine with whipped cream. Extra creamy,” you said.
I wonder if the blue checkered shirt or that drying off jet-black hair captured my eyes. But I’m positive it’s your timid and genuine smile that left my heart tingling.
“Were you visiting that day again?” you asked. Two huge mugs of hot cocoa – one with whipped cream and one with little marshes. I handed yours and fix myself next to you, burying my legs underneath the duvet and smile. You laugh.
“Why The Terminal?” I sipped my hot cocoa.
“Because you left me stranded every time you make hot chocolate.”
“It takes…”
“Eight minutes, I know. Eight minutes for your whisking to whisk them away,” you interrupted.
“Ok champ. Just play the movie.”
I love it when you finish off my sentence.
Disclaimer: fictional and within the spatial wonderment of the writer.
